


You Broke Me First

by armanivs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Air Elemental - Freeform, Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Angst, Childhood Friends, Dark Hermione Granger, Dark Tom Riddle, Dark Tomione, Earth Elemental, Elementals, Evil Hermione Granger, F/M, Heartbreak, Ice Elemental, Knights of Walpurgis, Orphanage, Powerful Hermione Granger, Slytherin Hermione, Soft-ish Tom, Weather Elemental, Wool’s Orphanage, fire elemental, haunted pianos, idk what this is just roll with it, manipulative hermione, shakespeare quotes, tomione - Freeform, water elemental
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armanivs/pseuds/armanivs
Summary: "Dear Harry James Potter,""I admit, writing the next portion of my life is difficult as I have yet to process it properly. It has taken me a while to come to terms with that the Harry Potter that I watch grow up will never be the Harry Potter who was like my brother.""I was desperate, Harry, you must understand that."Or,A battle-torn woman throws herself back in time for peace after standing as the last remaining member of the infamous Golden Trio using an ancient ritual discovered in one of the many Black Family tomes. Without a solid plan, the witch endeavours to change the fate of those she had loved and lost and inevitably changes the course of the timeline with her presence. Despite the changes that occurred, the witch did not want to leave the tragic tale untold and therefore bestowed the beloved Harry Potter on his birthday with the memories of her past that ceased to exist.[sporadic updates]
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 59
Kudos: 257





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer applies to all chapters henceforth:  
> This fanfiction is purely for non-profit and fun, all rights to the canon characters and the Harry Potter Universe belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a work of fiction and imagination. Events described in this fic that has any resemblance to reality is most likely a coincidence unless stated otherwise.

Chapter 1

** 31st July 1995 **

****

“Harry,” the dark haired, green eyed boy adorning circular glasses that aided his poor vision looked up to his father. The older man had closed his son’s door before presenting him with an ornate, black and gold box that had _Harry James Potter_ inscribed in gold leaf.

“What’s this, Dad?” the boy questioned as he carefully stroked the cursive writing.

“It’s your fifteenth birthday,” James stated factually as he ruffled the boy’s dark locks, “Father asked me to give you this on your fifteenth birthday.”

“Did he say why?”

“No.” James replied in negative, “He said the person that had gifted you it had charmed it so only you would ever be able to discover its contents.”

“Oh,” Harry’s interest was piqued as he rattled the box after moving it closer to his ear. He heard the sounds of crystal vials clashing against each other and immediately regretted his actions, hoping with his fingers crossed that he hadn’t broken anything. “Anything else?”

James shook his head and kissed his growing boy’s head, mumbling “Goodnight,” before leaving to curl up by his wife as Harry carefully unlocked the warded box.

On first sight an envelope appeared with the wax crest of Slytherin ensuring it was closed. Harry only knew of two people belonging to the House of Slytherin – his Aunty Hermione and his Uncle Tom.

_Dearest Harry James Potter,_

_You may not be expecting this from me for I have most likely left the country with my husband in pursuit of further travels. I would like to tell you a story about my life before I attended Hogwarts with your grandfather and what I will write will be incredibly disturbing but you must understand that once upon a time in an alternate timeline that was our life. I must stress that the content disclosed within this box is for your eyes only (and the people whom I have told the tragic tale to) thus forth you must allow three drops of your blood to fall onto this parchment to reveal the remaining contents._

_I’ll ease your worries, Harry, that my intents are not malicious in any form of the word; rather they are to inform you about the Harry Potter that had been my best friend and brother in everything but blood._

The birthday boy’s eyes widened at the mention of his name by the mysterious gifter. In his fifteen years of life he had never formed bonds as close as the letter was suggesting with a girl save for a few romantic interests and bashful crushes.

_Still do not trust me? Haha, that’s reassuring. I’m sure your parents have taught you well. To further appease you, let me divulge into a brief tale that I recall of ours that will be explained in further detail as the years of this story progress: We had found the infamous Come and Go room (or how you may know it as the Room of Requirement) and you began teaching the practical parts of the syllabus that had been denied as part of our required education. The thrill we had received upon its success made us think that despite the troubles we had faced in setting it up Mischief had been Managed._

A quiet gasp tumbled from his lips. If Harry hadn’t trusted the writer before he definitely did now. James had only recently divulged the secret to his group’s success in becoming the pranksters of their generation and it was a secret that had been kept for years. The fact that the writer _knew_ this indicated that whoever it was truly intended no harm to come to him. He grabbed a safety pin that had been lying on his dresser and opened to prick his pinky finger. Turning it over the parchment, he allowed three drops – exactly as instructed – to fall upon it and watched in wonder as the writing began to glow before revealing more words scripted in the same crimson of his blood.

_By placing your blood within the parchment you have vowed to not speak of the content detailed within the box addressed to Harry James Potter. If you try to divulge information you will find yourself unable to speak regarding the topic aside from the few people having prior knowledge._

_With the formalities out of the way, I am sure you are curious as to who I am, correct? My name is Hermione Jean Granger, though you may know me as ‘The Brightest Witch of Her Age’ or Hermione Luna Granger or Lady Riddle or your Aunt Hermione._

_For your ease I have separated the different timeline events as best as I can. Most of what I have written down – save for what you may have read in book or heard in stories – may seem utterly unfathomable; should you find this to be the case there are vials containing my memories in numbered order. I request that you watch vials 14 onwards once you think you are mentally prepared as much of the content is grotesque and horrific enough to induce nightmares for years. I speak from experience._

**_ Original timeline (the one you will hopefully never know) _ **

_Let me explain to you about the Harry Potter that I grew up with in school._

_Harry Potter was dubbed as The-Boy-Who-Lived after his survival of the killing curse on 31 st October 1981. An evil man named Lord Voldemort had heard of a prophecy regarding himself and Harry Potter; I do not remember the prophecy word for word but from what I remember it had stated that by attempting assassination Lord Voldemort would be marking Harry Potter as his equal and neither being could live whilst the other survived. _

_After the attack, Harry Potter’s parents were found to be dead and he with a lightning scar on the corner of his forehead. Albus Dumbledore left him with his mother’s horrible relatives wherein he was kept under the staircase for a large part of his life. Upon my initial meeting with Harry Potter I had fixed his broken glasses and became somewhat acquaintances. Then in first year on All Hallow’s Eve a troll was released in the dungeons and Harry Potter and his friend Ron Weasley had come to save me in the girls bathroom for I had missed dinner and was unaware of the impending danger._

_We became inseparable since then and fled past a Cerberus in which towards the end Harry managed to force Voldemort to retreat once again. This was only first year!_

_I_ _n second year, Harry Potter had inadvertently discovered he was a parselmouth – a side effect from the attack and the ‘marking as his equal’ bit from the prophecy. I cannot state what or where, only that a secret place was discovered and Harry fought against another version of Lord Voldemort and succeeded in defeating that portion too, accidentally finding a piece of knowledge that would help him in the nascent of what would’ve been our seventh year._

“What do you mean what would’ve been our seventh year, Aunty?” Harry mumbled under his breath as he took a bite from the apple he had summoned from a friendly house elf.

_In third year, Remus Lupin – one of your father’s best mates – was our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and we discovered of his lycanthropy. In that year we used my time-turner (which I initially had in order to take more classes than my timetable could fit) to save an unjust execution of Hagrid’s hippogriff named Buckbeak. That year we were attacked by dementors and Harry learnt how to cast the patronus charm, saving us both when they were searching for us two when we were re-living time._

_In fourth year, the Triwizard tournament was held and Harry Potter’s name was placed into the Goblet of Fire by an imposter posing as Alastor Moody. At the mere age of 14 he had to endure challenges that 17 years old competitors faced and he came out victorious at a grave cost. A hufflepuff lost his life for the trophy at the end of the maze had been charmed into a portkey in which the Death Eaters (Voldemort’s army) used Harry’s blood to resurrect the fallen Lord Voldemort._

Harry continued to read, his stomach churning with nausea at the grotesque events that had occurred after the evil man’s resurrection. He couldn’t imagine a life like the one Aunt Hermione had presented yet the smudged ink stains on the parchment revealed that the events were written in truth. It pained him to think that his aunt had laid on the floor of a family’s ancestral home in which he frequented writhing in agony as the horrific word that had been banned from use decades ago had been carved into her skin.

He read on.

_I was desperate, Harry, you must understand that._

The smooth, cursive penmanship had become jagged and shaky.

_I admit, writing the next portion of my life is difficult as I have yet to process it properly. It has taken me a while to come to terms with that the Harry Potter that I watch grow up will never be the Harry Potter who was like my brother. Instead, I implore that you find yourself a pensieve and watch the remainder of my life until the end of my Hogwarts career for I cannot bear to write any longer. The story ahead is one that you may be slightly familiar with given that your grandfather was one of my closest friends – similarly to the way Harry Potter had been to me._

“Dobby!” An elfish pop notified Harry of the house elf’s arrival. “Could you please set up grandfather’s pensieve?”

“Of course, Master Harry.” The elf grinned as he set up the contraption that would allow Harry to view everything his Aunt had suffered through during her essential second chance at childhood.

Tipping the silvery thread encased in a crystal vial labelled _Now- 1_ , Harry fell into the memories of Hermione Jean Granger.

**ooOoo**

** 2nd May 1998 **

Hermione landed ungracefully with her pseudo brother's body in Godrics Hollow; her breathing haggard as she forced her twitching muscles into a crouched position. She levitated the corpse towards his parents' joint grave and dug a hole with her bare hands for hours under the hazy moonlight before conjuring a spade. Baring the biting cold, she ignored how her fingers became numb from the lack of warmth, her emaciated state further encouraging her to rest before continuing only for the warning to pass ignored. A blue hue tainted her pale skin as she pressed a kiss to his icy temple and brushed her fingers over his open eyelids, shutting them till it looked like he was merely sleeping. It shouldn't have been so cold on the borderline of spring and summer, but it seemed as though nature was mourning for the tragic losses and simultaneously punishing those who participated in the conflict in her own way.

"I love you, Harry." Hermione whimpered, hot tears trailing down her dirty cheeks as she placed a final kiss on his cheek before covering his corpse with the dirt she painstakingly dug. " _You didn't deserve any of what you went through._ "

**ooOoo**

** 31st October 1998 ** ****

They would be coming here to check soon. With Narcissa Black Malfoy and Draco Malfoy having Black blood running through their veins, it would only be a matter of time before the Dark seized her only solid hideout for their own.

Hogwarts had been rebuilt from what she heard from the Daily Prophet, only open to those who had acquiesced to Lord Voldemort and his gang of followers. It had taken four months to rebuild what had taken barely a night to demolish and the Dark's numbers had increased significantly, surpassing the supporters of Dumbledore as they too surrendered in fear. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle or Lord Voldemort, the catalyst for all things bad and evil had only been another boy who had grown up in conditions that shaped the Gaunt bloodline curse. Born in an orphanage during the interwar period, the boy had never known love or friendship or much - if any - kindness. First in the Muggle realm, due to his displays of accidental magic he was ignored profusely by all the children he could’ve counted as family; and most likely in the early years of his life in the wizarding world where he had had to build a name for himself whilst simultaneously taking the reins of the dwindling House of Gaunt. 

Thoughts of travelling back and eradicating the threat before it ever was one had passed through her mind vaguely before being promptly pushed back and shaken off with a long lecture by her internal monologue of morals. 

_What if she killed Riddle_ — no. 

Killing is only acceptable during war. To a certain degree. If Hermione Granger created a tear in the fabric of time and used the hole to carry out personal vengeance, the results and punishments would be disastrous.

 _Nobody would even care if he died_ , the ominous rasp chided in the shadows of her mind, _Young Harry would be able to live and grow with his parents and Neville would have his parents sane and well._

_But what is in it for me?_

_The ability, the power to manipulate the futures of those you care about_ , it purred in a manner akin to Voldemort that made the girl excuse her shudder of disgust as a shiver from the cold.

 _What if that is not what I want?_

_Knowledge is power, is it not?_ The voice questioned with a lilt. _Besides_ , it mocked from her first year, _you're past the point of an untainted soul and there is a slim chance of actually surviving under the psychopath's reign. You're — **We are a murderer.**_

Hermione swallowed, her throat aching for the cool water sitting on the nightstand beside her bed. 

No, not her bed. _The bed Harry had used whenever he was granted permission to reside in 12 Grimmauld Place with his god father. She had tried and failed in attempting to sleep in the bed that she had claimed in fifth year yet it brought little comfort as opposed to the faint lingering scent of the boy she loved dearly._

The young witch sighed and closed her eyes in preparation of another fitful night’s sleep.

**ooOoo**

** 25th December 1998 **

She snuck into Gringotts and all but emptied the Black and Potter Vaults. Each galleon she found she stuffed into her enchanted beaded bag, as well as a few heirlooms she particularly liked in the sake of her own suppressed vanity.

She left the bank unnoticed under a glamour and plenty of professional makeup and proceeded to empty the adequate Black library in Grimmauld Place into her school trunk, shrinking it down to fit inside her beaded bag. And then she shrunk her bag and found an old keyring that had been lying around in her childhood home. She sold the house with shallow eyes and made sure to bid her neighbours farewell, lying to them that she was merely moving countries and wished them all the best with their newborn.

She was moving her place in time. 

The beaded bag didn't look nice enough to be attached, so she emptied her muggle bank account and trust fund that her parents had left for her before being put under the _obliviate charm_ and bought a new designer purse — _Chanel._ _It_ was the only brand Hermione knew had been established before the time she was packing for — that was mixed in the style of the 30s and her own simplistic one. Under the guise of a Christmas sale, the previous owner had set the price so low that it was border lining free in order to get rid of what was now considered to be an atrocious, out-of-style bag.

It was _quaint_. 

She charmed and warded it heavily, stuffing her beaded bag and all its contents inside of it, not ready to let go of the bag that helped her nearly destroy him.

Hermione shrunk the new purse and attached it to the key ring with an unbreakable sticking charm. She warded the whole thing heavily, going as far as to tethering it to her magical signature and blood with the intention to wear it and never lose it. 

It looked like an adequate enough ring she supposed. 

**ooOoo**

** 31st December 1998/1937 **

Dress transfigured, potion waiting patiently under the _statis charm_ in a strictly forbidden crystal vial only purchasable from the black market, Hermione was ready. She had placed almost all of her belongings and semantics into her ring, including the muggle clothes she knew wouldn't come around for another sixty, maybe seventy years once she completed her travels. 

Loath as she was to leave her familiar behind - or forward if one was to be pedantic - Hermione couldn't afford to bring Crookshanks on such a dangerous mission with her. She didn't know if a domestic cat could even travel through time in the same manner as a witch. Instead, for the benefit of both her pet and her sanity, Hermione opted to delivering him to her parents' place in Australia, posing as a distant neighbour leaving the country indefinitely with no means to be able to look after the cat any longer. The familiar kind virtues they upheld as the Grangers remained under the name of the Wilkins. It brought painful tears to her eyes and a throbbing ache in her chest as she brought them into a distant embrace for a final time, knowing that the next time she would see them, they would essentially be younger than her and she still not their daughter.

Hermione thanked them with a strained smile, kissing her familiar affectionately before apparating back into the dingy basement of Grimmauld Place. 

_Glass shattered._

Somewhere on the above floor, the Death Eaters had managed to breach a window.

 _One would have thought they would have taken the day off to celebrate their master's birthday_ , Hermione mused silently as she twisted the crystal vial between her fingers.

Ensuring the runes were aligned in the correct order: one for wind, one for air, one for fire and one for earth, the worn witch lay in the centre, arms and legs akimbo as her magic tipped the lurid contents of the vial drop by drop. She reinforced the sticking charm on her ring, ensuring that it would not slide off and leave her vulnerable before ceasing her use of her magical core once the vial emptied and shattered. 

_Shouts, cackles, spells._

Draco Malfoy had entered the room she had performed the ritual in, watching her with exhausted eyes that she was certain held a minute tinge of concern. A small smile encompassed her lips as she waved her nimble fingers in a slight goodbye at her childhood enemy as the element of air increased and pressure. Flames erupted from the circumference of the powdered limestone, blocking the forced Death Eater from reaching her, though he did not put up much of a fight as he watched the last beacon of hope against the tyrannical Dark Lord prepare to disappear. Frosty water seeped from the weltering flames, drenching the parts of her skin available and the dress she had transfigured.

Finally, the earth shook and Hermione felt herself falling through a bottomless hole, the last person of the future she saw being the Boy-Who-Had-No-Choice. She felt herself split into minuscule atoms and for a brief moment that stretched on for what felt like an hour she was nothing; not a memory, not a person, not even a wisp of air. Until she collapsed and collided on sharp cobblestone, her nose bashing straight onto the floor despite her body's subconscious attempt in shielding her face. 

Panting, she looked up at the desolate street. _London_ , she recognised through the tufts of black smoke puffing out of dauntingly dark factories.

_She had to move._

Groaning, Hermione noticed her significantly smaller hands and lighter body weight than she had become accustomed to. _What?_ Running towards a darkened window, despite her muscles and mind screaming - _begging_ \- for her not to, Hermione gazed at the reflection of her eleven years old self scrutinising her. The child was thin; her skeletal structure inferable by the sagging of her dress. Huffing in discontent, Hermione waved her hand over herself, watching as the dirtied dress and shoes shrunk to fit her as properly as they could.

The purchase of a new wand would be in order, the witch noted absently as the feeling of her magic coursing through the vinewood stick felt utterly wrong. Though she had brought along Harry's, it was more as a failsafe _,_ _a keepsake, a souvenir_ of a life she would never return to if all things went according to plan. A plan she had yet to create. 

"Hello, little miss, are you lost?" a kind voice asked from beside her, breaking her from her thoughts.

_Shit. Did the man see her use magic, would she have to obliviate him?_

"Hello sir." she mumbled quietly under the silence of the night. 

"What's a young lass like you doing out all alone?"

"Sir-" she began but cut herself off. She couldn't very well ask him for a place to stay at his home, who knows what he would do to her. "Would you know of any orphanages or something? My parents passed away a few months ago and I've been living on the streets ever since." she lied, throwing in a sniffle and a down cast gaze. 

"Oh deary." the man muttered, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. He raised his hand towards a taxi slowly driving by, beckoning it to stop. "Come, I shall take you to an orphanage not far from here. We'll get you sorted with a warm bed and a roof over your head-"

Hermione bit her lip. Following a stranger into a car would be dangerous. Not reaching a bloody orphanage would too be dangerous. She reached within herself in search of her magical core. When she had first started Hogwarts in her true timeline, her essence had been quite small and its regeneration took hours. Hermione observed the meter of luminescent light. Her magical core now seemed practically the same as it had been when she was eighteen and fighting war. Concluding that she had the capability to defend herself if the occasion required it, Hermione accepted and clambered into the back seat. She mentally noted each turn and twist the car took until they stopped at the beginning of a dark, dead end street. 

The sun had set, the final few rays disappearing from the horizon as she gazed blankly at the ominous building. It was almost charcoal in colour, no doubt due to the toxic pollution emitting from the factories mere miles away. The man clasped her hand in his, helping her out of the car and through the creaking, unkempt gates. He spoke with an old, fatigued matron who smiled and nodded. _The woman must not have heard of toothpaste_ , she snarked internally, her parents' dentistry teachings that were deeply ingrained within her mind coming to light as she inspected the strained smile. 

"Of course! We have an empty room all prepped and ready for her." the woman agreed, her eyes flitting to the young girl's thin stature briefly. "The other kids have just been sent to bed but I'm sure there's some left overs that she can eat tonight."

Hermione stretched her lips upwards. "Thank you for taking me in, Ma'am." she said as Mrs Cole lead her towards a door numbered 4.

The door revealed a plain room; peeling wall paint in the familiar ashy grey colour Hermione had assumed to be the theme of the orphanage; a single wooden desk with a wooden chair supported by sellotape on one of the legs; an uncomfortably small, single bed tucked to the side of a rather small cupboard that housed two grey uniforms and a small, secret compartment. 

It was then that Hermione wondered whether her decision to leave was wise. At least in the future she knew when and where she could obtain the products required for survival whereas in her lonesome in a familiar city in a completely different time where rules and regulations were far more lax and cruel, she was lost as a child.

"Not a problem deary—" it would be once rationing was enforced. "—better here than out there I s’ppose," Mrs Cole smiled sympathetically, one that did not reach her eyes. "Breakfast is at _seven_ , schooling is at _eight_ _sharp_. You are expected to be bathed and dressed by six thirty the latest. Lunch is at _twelve-thirty_ on all days but Thursday where it'll be at _two-thirty_." 

Hermione nodded obediently.

"Dinner is always at _seven_. You will be expected to be bathed and dressed if need be before dinner or else after. Lights out is at _ten_ —" soon to be as soon as the air raid sirens wail "—and the cycle repeats. Mandatory bathing takes place on alternative schedules unless for certain _occasions_ in which bath time can be requested or ordered."

"Occasions?"

"When you grow up a little more you'll go through what every woman does— menstrual cycle, period, shark week, whatever you want to call it. Once your cycle finishes, it is mandatory that you request for bath time on the final day and that you log your periods in this—" her hand gestured towards a blank calendar hidden on the inside of the cupboard door, "—calendar in order for us to monitor you and help prevent nasty accidents."

The young witch hadn't known what to expect of the orphanage but she reluctantly admitted that this was not it. Even in 1998 she had assumed that periods were difficult to deal with in a facility such as this. It had also been a while since she had felt the cramps she loathed in her stomach and the uncomfortable sensation of blood trickling out of her most intimate parts due to the lack of nourishment and the constant movement that denied her cycle to remain consistent. It was a blessing then but now she was simply confused whether she wanted it back or not.

"Oh- erm..." she blushed prettily whilst plastering a confused expression, "Sure. Thank you again ma'am."

The matron nodded and shut the door softly behind her, leaving the _eighteen-year-old-witch-trapped-in-an-eleven-year-old's-body_ to her thoughts.

Hermione observed the room a final time as she undressed and wandlessly cleaned her transfigured dress with a mumbled " _Scourgify_ ,". Tucking the dress into the small, hidden compartment, the witch warded it lighter than she had with her ring in case it reverted back to its former state of a comfortable joggers set. Reluctantly pulling on the itchy orphanage pyjamas, Hermione settled into the creaky bed, twisting and turning until she huffed and cast a cushioning charm for comfort. The fatigue of time travel and the high level of magic coursing through her small body weighed her eyelids down until she acquiesced to the dark abyss she had sought for two, mind-trifling years.

_Oh the perks of being a witch_ , the girl thought before exhaling deeply.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter 2

** 1st January 1938 **

Five thirty on the dot; Hermione was bathed, dressed and had almost finished filling out her identity form that she had nabbed from Mrs Cole's office.

"Name? Hermione.." she paused for a second. In this moment she had the liberty of changing her identity for the matron nor the man that had delivered her to Wool’s Orphanage had asked for her name. " _Hermione Luna Granger_."

"Date of birth? Nineteenth September nineteen—“ calculating her age and the year she had been deposited in she filled: “ _twenty six_."

"How long have I lived in the U.K? Nineteen years and three months to be precise." she smarted whilst ticking the thirty six plus months box.  
  
After those, there was nothing much else to fill out aside from personal appearance descriptions and underlying health problems. As a muggleborn witch she was naturally immune to most viruses and diseases that originated in the muggle world, thus she had a strong defence system and would not necessarily require any professional muggle medical help as long as the potions in her ring remained potable.

Sighing, the young witch leaped off of the cheap chair, her feet landing silently on the wooden floor achieved through a year of practice during war. She left the papers neatly in the centre of the desk, roaming through the halls in an attempt to find the room she foolishly left behind.

Glacial winds seeped through each crack and crevice of the old building, the two small fires placed in what they called the communal room providing little heat compared to the open fires she burnt in the forest during the golden trio's hunt for horcruxes. Leaning backwards casually, Hermione checked for any stragglers before hovering her hand above the fire. She pushed her magic towards the fire, willing for its heat to increase and warm her. As though her magic were atoms of oxygen, the flames steadily increased in size until they were as large as the ones in the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione licked her dry lips as she pondered over her risky ritual whilst curling up on an uncomfortably hard sofa. She remembered the feeling of something attaching to her— to her magical core. Unable to decipher its identity immediately intrigued the little witch. She hopefully wished that she would be invited to (re)join Hogwarts so she could browse through the castle's extensive library and discover what had actually happened rather than concluding with theories based off of guesses and feelings.

Hermione shivered as a particularly cool breeze swept past her, prompting her into tucking her legs close to her chest and curling up closer to the fire. As soon as she figured out the daily routines and schedules of everyone in the orphanage, Hermione could plan her first trip to Diagon Alley as a time traveller. Finding a job that paid decently would be her first motive. Something she could work on and earn during the school term if need be. Though the galleons rattling about in her silenced ring was enough to classify her as a multi-millionaire or possibly billion (what with inflation) that would support her for as long as she lived, Hermione still wanted the security and stability of a job. Money she earned by her own sweat and blood rather than stolen from a deceased friend.

Footsteps could be heard among the creaking of steps and floor boards. Hermione glanced at the clock ticking by the door. _Six fifty-eight_. Two minutes till she had to introduce herself to the currently ambiguous hierarchical system.

Joy.

**ooOoo**

Whispers surrounded Hermione as Mrs Cole came to converse with her. Calculating, curious gazes locked with her own impassive one as they attempted to decipher the new arrival. She could practically hear their thoughts upon assessing their facial expressions. Legilimency wasn't necessary to follow their pathetic trains of thoughts.

_Would she be an underdog? Someone they could pick and tease on? The unruly hair would make the perfect target._

It nearly made her scoff out loud.

"Hermione, correct?" Mrs Cole asked upon reaching her, a dingy table cloth dangling from her loose grasp.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Who filled those forms on my desk?" she asked accusingly, a cocky eyebrow raised in a manner Hermione did not like.

"I filled them, ma'am."

"That handwriting _cannot_ possibly be of an eleven-year-old!" she hissed.

"Would you like to see me write a sentence, ma'am? For proof?" Hermione said blandly, her teeth digging into her tongue in order to suppress a lengthy yawn threatening to break past her lips.

Mrs Cole huffed but shook her head in denial. "No need. Come, I shall introduce you to the other children."

Without waiting for Hermione's opinion, the woman curled her cold fingers around her slim wrist and dragged her into the centre of the room. As the matron introduced her, the young witch observed the seating arrangements of the dining table. She assessed the groups— who sat with who, what stereotypes they could be categorised into.

"—warm welcome to Wool's Orphanage."

Hermione withheld a snort. Cold would be more appropriate given the small, almost invisible, wisps of steam she could see emitting from somebody's mouth every time they spoke. "Thank you, Mrs Cole." she smiled at the woman, revealing a set of perfectly straight, pearly teeth she had magically fixed by Madam Pomfrey.

"No problem, little'un. Grab some breakfast—" soggy cereal should cover it, "— and have a seat."

With another dazzling smile, Hermione politely took a bowl from the chef's awaiting hands. She was sure to maintain the teachings of her parents by thanking the chubby man who grunted in both faint surprise and dismissal.

Killing them with kindness would be the best way to go about this.

As she walked past she felt a larger hand grasp onto her arm. Thoroughly disliking being man handled, Hermione yanked her limb free of the captor and swivelled to send a withering glare but forced herself to stop after a few tense moments. _Allies were necessary_. "Do not touch me without my express permission."

The burly boy with a jagged blonde hairdo simply raised his arm in mock surrender before tapping on the seat next to him. Hermione sat down primly and stirred the spoon in her bowl around. "You startled me is all," she explained half-heartedly in a weak attempt to salvage what goodwill that could bud, "Perhaps calling my name will do better?"

The boy grinned wolfishly as he introduced himself as Dennis Bishop and the remainder of his cronies. _Dennis Bishop_. He and some other girl would be terrified out of their wits some months down the line. What was her name, Amy something?

"Bishop, who is that boy over there?" she pointed towards a pale boy of similar age as her. His hair was trimmed neatly and his green eyes seemed as dead as hers, no doubt the hatred of muggles increasing with his ire.

"Oh, that?" the manner in which they spoke of him as though he were inhumane did not slide past the witch. "That's Tom Riddle. A right freak that’s been here as long as I remember," he continued rambling about a few of his bouts of accidental magic with his mouth full of the slop they tarnished what used to be her favourite food for breakfast. "—taken to Father John for an exorcism. Nothing came out of him I don't think. Must be born possessed the freak. Look at him, he's looking right now!"

That piqued her interest. Mrs Cole had the gall to take a child with capabilities inexplicable to her to an exorcist? The inhumane portrait _Lord Voldemort_ had painted himself within her mind slowly began to chip as she observed the ridicule, humiliation and utter degrading conditions he grew up in. Though it did not excuse his immoral methods of punishment and revenge, it allowed a small bud of sympathy and the _tiniest_ _bit_ of empathy to blossom as Hermione realised that within a few short weeks she may undergo the same treatment as him should she not retain the control she currently held over her powers.

Hermione cleaned her mouth with a bit of ripped napkin and then proceeded to return the curious, cold gaze of her former enemy. She raised her eyebrow subtly with a controlled expression, a small smirk forming on her lips as she felt his magical essence brushing up against hers inquiringly. The witch couldn’t explain how she knew whose magical signature was whose, only that by gut instinct she _knew_. Riddle’s magic was foreign yet familiar all the same. It still held the suffocating taunt of excess power but in this time it held less of the lingering atoms of dark, murderous magic that had surrounded him in 1998. It was softer, curious, somewhat comfortable. For now they were no threats to each other and their magical cores – sentient in their own unexplainable manner – understood that. As a mild test to check just how much control she held over her own, Hermione imagined the particles of magic surrounding her transfiguring into small needle points and thrust it forward, pricking him lightly. Relishing in the subtle flinch and the deathly glower, Hermione shot him an inconspicuous wink before washing her bowl and setting it on the dish rack to dry.

Tom Riddle now knew of Hermione Granger's magical capability. He knew of the heredity that separated them from the rest of the children though the specific term for his _powers_ was still ambiguous. Now that he knew, the time travelled witch began forming haphazard plans that would bring him down to his knees as her follower rather than leader. She could control herself, Hermione conceded as she picked up a forgotten book from the floor of the dismal library, and if need be she could assume his post as _Dark Wizard_.

Twisting the tattered book in her hands, the young witch tutted at the state it had been left in. Upon noticing the title, another feral grin threatened to break out on her collected countenance. Slowly dragging a child's finger against the spine of the paper-back, Hermione noted absently that her magic had restored the book to an almost pristine condition— anything more and it would look entirely too suspicious to be residing in such squalid conditions.

"The Knights of Walpurgis," she purred whilst brushing her hand over the second hand copy of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , "Will be mine."

**ooOoo**

** 28th February 1938 **

The orphans— even those who had lived there longer than she (which was about everyone)— quickly learnt that Hermione Granger was not a girl to be trifled with. The first lesson she had taught them was when one of the older kids, Joe Price, attempted to make a fool out of her for her intellectual prowess. 

The boy found himself running around the communal room in his second-hand pink boxers, collecting all of the little artefacts he had stowed away within the cupboard of his room. 

The second was when a girl only a few months older than her nabbed a pair of sharp scissors and came close to cutting a chunk of curly hair off. Exactly seven days later, the girl had lost her eyebrows at her own fault. _Hair removal cream worked like a charm_. The sans eyebrows could not point a finger towards Hermione for there was no evidence suggesting that she had tampered with any of her gifted products. 

The third and final time prompted all the children — including Tom Riddle — to be cautious of their words and their distance. 

During one of the Orphanage's annual winter outings, Hermione had sought comfort within one of the unsheltered benches dangerously close to the train track. A gust of piercingly cold wind had blown the light ball a few of the boys had been using as a means to pass time. It had stopped by her feet, the spherical object hitting the heel of her ordinary shoe as she stared disinterestedly at them. 

"Well? Give it back then." the boy with dirty blonde hair had demanded. The resemblance between himself and the future Lavender Brown was uncanny and the thought of the vain witch had certainly left a bitter tang on Hermione’s taste buds. 

Perhaps he was a bastard child of the Brown family; or maybe part of a disinherited squib line. 

"Do not order me around, Smith." she instructed with an air of indifference, returning to her book as she kept the ball between her crossed feet.

"Look," he said exasperatedly while his eyes flickered towards the short distance between the train tracks and her small figure, "I'm not coming there."

It was common knowledge among the orphans of the boy's fear of trains _. "I think you have_ Siderodromophobia _," she once informed not unkindly, "You should have it checked with a doctor if the annual trips with trains are bothering you." The boy had scoffed and shook his head, babbling about how his nervousness did not require the attention of a medical expert that would cost the orphanage an arm and a leg that they couldn’t very well afford. His fault, not hers._

"Ask nicely." she chided again, her numb fingers inserting a scrap piece of paper that she had taken to use as a bookmark. Second-hand or not, a tome's pages should never be dog eared. 

"Give it here, Granger." he responded gruffly, his hands balling into fists as they both heard the rhythmic beat of train wheels hitting the tracks increase steadily in volume.

Hermione merely stared at him blankly from her seat on the bench as her feet slowly lost their tight grip around the ball. A light breeze pushed the toy away from her person, the object falling due to the force of gravity onto the railway track.

Though it had somewhat worked in her favour, Hermione didn't realise a person would be stupid enough to retrieve a _bloody ball_ from the centre of a railway track in which a steam locomotor was pedalling swiftly towards the platform. The sickening crunch of metal destroying bones and the strangled scream emitted from a boy choking on his own blood captured the attention of the other commuters as well as the members of her orphanage. They couldn't hold Hermione responsible— Mrs Cole and a few strangers had witnessed the boy following the ball on his own accord. The closeted witch had not moved the bottle from its stopping place; _nature_ had shifted its position to the train track by the element of air. The girl hadn't moved a muscle save for the eight words that held no embedded coercion. 

Hermione's eyes subconsciously flitted over to a pale Riddle watching her warily. She hesitantly reached her magical essence out, allowing hers to soak in the feeling of Tom's apprehension and fear directed towards her.

Though Luke Smith's demise had been rather unfortunate, it was merely _accidental collateral damage_ within the scheme of uncertain plans Hermione had laid out. 

_Lord Voldemort would quickly learn to fear her and Harry would no longer be subdued under the insane man's quest for murder under her contro_ _l_ , Hermione thought sinisterly.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might seem a bit rushed, I’m trying to get the duo to Hogwarts.

Chapter 3

** 15th July 1938 **

The education was _poor_ , Hermione concluded after the first week of schooling. The only commendable subject was Latin, however that relied on the student's ability to memorise rather than learn. 

The shadow of her past-self came to light as the following Monday after her first week, she berated and lectured the professor on every mistake he made. Eventually she ended up re-teaching the children at the orphanage the absolute basics of Maths, Literacy and Science for a few months before allowing the teacher to take control, though she refused to put the orphans under her tutelage in Latin in fear of accidentally muttering a spell and possibly causing irreversible after effects that could land her in both a psych ward and Azkaban.

Tom Riddle was a prodigy. For his age he knew far more than any other child though he could not come to par with Hermione. It wasn't his fault, the young witch had eight years of extra knowledge and experience under her belt, both magical and muggle. In fact, she had far more advanced knowledge too given that the many discoveries and theories that were occurring at this moment had been part of her secondary school examinations. He reminded him of herself at his age; both were ostracised by their school peers for their intelligence and absurdness, both preferred the silent company of books rather than the obnoxious chattering of people. They both knew that they were special— _gifted_ and had the itching desire to expand their knowledge and power exponentially.

Stretching with a small noise of relief, Hermione stood up from her shade sheltered spot under the large tree at the end of the street from the orphanage. She snapped her fingers and watched her personal copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ disappear into her ring. Today she would go to Diagon Alley and hopefully acquire a job. Mrs Cole had gone out on a grocery errand whilst the older children had left to work their summer jobs with pitiful income. The others were either at the communal park or lurking around in their rooms. 

As for Tom Riddle? She hadn't had the faintest clue. 

Hermione summoned Harry’s wand hidden in her makeshift ring and pushed it inside her sleeve. She looked left and right, assuring herself that nobody could see her, and apparated onto the borderline of Knockturn Alley. The unpleasant tug at her navel forced Hermione to bite her lip in order to keep the induced nausea at bay. She couldn't afford to vomit over her orphanage uniform. 

Spotting the familiar, crooked sign of Flourish and Blotts, Hermione was tempted to ask for a position there, but quickly made a detour to Gringotts.

“Name and reason?”

“Hermione Granger, sir. I would like to open a vault for myself.” she replied evenly, uncaring of his bordering hostile tone.

The goblin sniffed, eyeing her confident stride in the body of a child before snapping his fingers and filling a few forms on parchment with a quill. He handed the specialised blood quill to her. “Signature there, there and there.” 

Before she signed, Hermione looked over the terms and conditions, searching for any loopholes or anything that could be used against her. “Is there any chance I can get one a bit more protected than the regular ones?”

“A minimum of forty galleons is required to purchase a high security vault.” the goblin peered over his nose at her disapprovingly.

Hermione smirked inwardly. Forty galleons barely made a scratch to her financial status. 

Pulling the required number of gold coins out of the pocket of her grey coloured cardigan, Hermione dropped each galleon slowly— _teasingly_ — into the awaiting hand of the greedy goblin. Once finishing his count up, he asked the young witch to pierce her finger with the needle provided and allow seven drops of blood to spill in order to tie the vault to her bloodline. She did so and only then did it dawn on her then just how much reliance she placed into blood-related rituals and magic. 

The goblin then took her to her vault, naming it the House of Granger. Unnecessary, really, but nice nonetheless. Hermione deposited a few of the books she had acquired and read cover-to-cover from the future Black Library, a hundred galleons and the few Black heirlooms that she couldn’t wear casually that had not been created. The remainder, she decided, would stay in her ring. Although it was weightless, the reassurance that it was there on her person brought comfort to her should a group of reckless teenagers manage to break into Gringotts like she and her group had.

Thanking the goblin, Hermione left the wizarding bank and pushed open the newer looking door of Flourish and Blotts. Searching for the Librarian’s desk, she was met with the sight of a rather young looking librarian. 

It was Mr Flourish himself from 1998 as a young adult. 

"G'dafternoon, sir." she greeted with a hesitant smile.

"Afternoon to you too, young witch." he grinned back, his hand propping up his head as his fists supported his chin. "What will you be looking for today, something for Hogwarts?"

"No sir." she said, averting eye contact. "Actually, I came here looking for a job. You see, sir, I'm an orphan and wish to support myself a bit outside of the trust funds of Hogwarts."

"Oh my dear," the man gazed at her pitifully. "Well there is an open slot as my locum— pays ya _two galleons, four sickles and seven knuts_ per hour every time you're called in."

Hermione quickly calculated the pound sterling equivalent. It was roughly five pounds an hour.

Not a lot in the future, but more than enough to sustain her now before the high inflation and second world war. 

"I accept, sir. Is it possible for it to be worked around my Hogwarts schedule?"

The man hummed as he stroked his chin, "It's not busy during the school term and I'm available for it. It's the holidays and the month before September that are the most hectic and require extra assistance."

"Of course!" Hermione beamed as she scribbled her details and signature down under the bewitched employment parchment. "I can handle that, is there any other information or jobs that I can do?"

"Not at the moment but I shall owl you when I do find something. What year are you currently in? Second?" 

"Oh," Hermione forced an abashed blush onto her cheeks, "You see sir, I haven't received my acceptance letter yet. I should be starting this upcoming September though."

She immediately found herself at the end of his shaking wand. Rolling her eyes, she brandished Harry's and cast a light cooling charm over the man. His stature relaxed instantaneously and his smooth wand returned to his back pocket. 

"Apologies, Miss—" he peered at the parchment, "—Granger, I had to be certain. You have a wonderful name, Hermione."

"No problem, sir," one day he would be serving under her reign, the reflex was commendable, useful, therefore excusable, "My mother was quite fond of Greek Mythology."

Mr Flourish laughed, the air of tension dissipating as the conversation took on a lighter tone. 

**ooOoo**

** 3rd August 1938 **

The oblivious slytherin heir was pissed. Hermione could feel his magic scouring the halls of the orphanage, brushing past her furiously. Peering over her open book, she observed the defensive stance he had taken when Dennis Bishop took a threatening step forward. The burly boy would face no qualms in beating Tom Riddle to the brink of death given his opponents frame was more of slender, leaner build. 

Hermione brushed her own magic against his comfortingly, silently urging him to calm down and stand back.

The brainless goldfish ignored her warning. 

She watched the brawl with an unimpressed sigh, observing how Tom favoured using his magic for offence rather than defence. _Admirable, but a costly mistake._ In doing so, he had taken multiple hits to the chest and limbs, only managing to defend his head as his opponent attacked him from all sides. Hermione clicked her tongue, she was certain she heard a few of the nimble boy's bones crack under the strength of Bishop.

Mrs Cole had stepped in, breaking the pair apart before Hermione could stop them on her own. "Honestly, you two! What in 'eavens name's gottun ya so riled up?" she shrieked, sending them both to separate bathrooms to clean up and ordered them to lock themselves in their respective rooms. 

They were lucky to have eaten beforehand, otherwise they would have starved until the next day having had no food since breakfast.

The curly haired witch silently followed the limping Tom, careful to keep her frame out of the eyes of others. Once they had turned a corner and were out of the peripheral vision of the muggles, Hermione discreetly pointed her wand from inside her sleeve at him. " _Wingardium Leviosa_ ," she mumbled, earning a shocked gasp from the boy ahead of her as he rose a few inches off of the ground. Having prior knowledge of each residing orphan’s rooms, Hermione released the levitation charm once he was hovering over his bed, ignoring the angered “Let me down!”’s. Tom landed on the mattress ungracefully with a loud _thump_ and a pain-filled groan.

She immediately set to work, yanking his thin top over his head. Years of experience in healing broken bones and bruises coming to front as her past-shadow subconsciously took control.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled unkindly, snatching his shirt from her hands and covering his beaten body with it.

"Healing you, dumbass!" she hissed, the phoenix-core wand clenched tightly in her hand. "Now unless you'd prefer bunches of needles and a large metal brace on your chest, you will let me heal you."

Hermione watched as he swallowed thickly, contemplating the two likely scenarios. 

"Why can't you just teach me how to heal myself?" he inquired as he flinched away from the tip of her wand. "And what the hell are you doing with a twig?"

The curly haired witch barked out a laugh— a laugh even she had never heard of before. It was cold, cynical and cruel. "Your magic isn't strong enough yet _,_ _Tom Riddle_. And this twig as you so _eloquently_ called it—" she twirled Harry's wand between her fingers, its core complaisant to her aura but nowhere near as satisfactory as how her own had been, "—is called a _wand_ , like the ones you read about in fairy stories and what not." She brushed the tip of it over his bruising stomach, "May I?"

Tom nodded quietly, watching as she mumbled strange words that he understood as a mixture of Latin and French. 

"Some time soon," Hermione started quietly, breaking the silence between them, "An elderly looking man should be coming to collect us— accept us into a school."

"How do you know?"

"My mother told me a few stories about her time there," she lied, her voice taken on a solemn tone as she recalled the memories where her parents sent her off at _Platform 9¾_ _._ Realising who she was speaking with, she hastily slammed down her occlumency defences. "Apparently it's a massive castle with talking paintings and real ghosts!"

"It doesn't sound very real." Tom said disbelievingly, though she understood. When she was first informed of a wizarding world, she only truly began to accept it once she had visited Diagon Alley.

"Oh it is very real, I have been to one of the market places before." Hermione assured as she finished mumbling the final spell. She poked her wand on the healed ribs, "Pain?"

"No," he shook his head, "How do you know how to do all of this?"

"You have powers, don't you Tom?" she countered, waiting for his nod of assent before continuing. "I think ours are more controlled than other gifted children like us but in the earlier days I used to have random bursts of moments too."

"You mean—"

"Yes, Riddle, I mean _magic_." she interjected, snapping her fingers to send her wand into her ring. Tom watched in awe as the wood disappeared from her hands into an unknown location. 

Hermione schooled her face to its common impassive stance again, "Naturally, this has to remain a secret. It's law to keep our powers hidden."

Tom nodded obediently, _he could do that._

"Also," she continued, "Unless you enjoy being beaten up to a pulp, I suggest avoiding confrontations with those you don't like. I won't be healing you again."

Tom's expression soured, his eyes glinting darkly. "It was his fault! He shouldn't have taken—"

"Ignore him then." Hermione interrupted again. She honestly could not fathom just how much disrespect she was getting away with from Voldemort. _Tom Riddle,_ she hastily reminded herself, _not Voldemort, not yet_. "I estimate that it will take two weeks at most for him to stop bothering you if you ignore and avoid any altercations and confrontations."

"They're beneath me— us! Why should we let them just get away with their deeds?"

"Exactly, _they're_ beneath _us_. We shouldn't need to waste our breaths retaliating on them. If there is something you need to avenge, do it subtly without your powers. Beat them by their own means, it is a far more humiliating tale."

They were both breathing heavily as they argued in shouted whispers. Hermione had drained her magic enough to the point she felt a long nap was mandatory and couldn't find the energy to cast a silencing charm. 

"Fine," he finally acquiesced, "If this doesn't work, then what?"

"Trust me, Riddle, it will."

**ooOoo**

** 7th August 1938 **

Leaning against the wall, Hermione watched Tom as he was approached by Bishop and another of his cronies.

“Whatcha got there, Riddle?” the boy said snootily, ripping the recently arrived copy of _Of Mice and Men_. A beautiful novella if one were to ask the lurking witch. 

“Something that’s not yours.” Tom retorted sharply, curling his fingers around his book and pulling it away from Stubbs’ inconsiderate grasp. The action had nearly torn a few pages of the paper-back.

Bishop was taken aback at the less than usual hostility. 

“W-Well,” he paused, hesitating as he quickly sought for another jab, “Not like any of us would want any o’ your weird stuff, _freak_.”

Tom’s eyes snapped to his, his book held carefully behind his back. He vigorously recalled Hermione’s words, choosing to put her theory to the test. _If it didn’t work, she’d be the one at the end of his abusive wand once he got one,_ he constantly reminded himself. Though for the most part, her advice had worked in his favour.

Mimicking the covert witch, the boy allowed a dark smirk to slowly pull his lips. He felt his magic thrum beneath his skin as he saw the flicker of fear flit over the chubby cheeked boy’s face. He tilted his head to the side, smirk still intact, “Then don’t take things you don’t want.” and then he strutted away from the boy.

Hermione stepped in pace beside him, her fingers clasping around the spine of the book. As they passed Mrs Cole, she smirked and almost purred, “ _Excellent choice_ ,”

The matron and any other on looker would think she was complimenting his chosen genre of book. He knew that wasn’t the only thing she was referring to.

 _Did this mean he owed her a life-debt now?_ Discarding the thought, Tom sat on the single bed he had grown up in. If Hermione Granger had been truthful that night she healed him, they would both be asked to attend... _Hogwarts_ , and from what she said her mother had said, it seemed several notches above the one place he had known all his life. 

Alas, Tom didn’t know if he could trust Granger. She was odd— odder than him. Rather than the mischievous or childish sparkle that most girls of her age had in their eyes, Granger’s were sullen, dead, _mature_. Her eyes betrayed that she had indeed suffered through more than the average eleven-year-old and when Tom had attempted to glance into her mind, he was surprised to find reinforced walls of steel guarded by sharp structures of ice and a formidable wind. 

Reading minds had been always been easy for him; the fact that hers was inaccessible both irked and intrigued him. Though he longed to question how she did it, he thought better of it lest he result with a similar fate as Luke Smith, the nasty boy she had _killed_.

 _But was killed the right word?_ Tom had noticed that she hadn’t said nor moved to provoke or coerce; the boy had fallen onto the tracks off of his own free will. He had felt her power reach for him, but in that moment he wanted to be as far away from her as possible in fear that she would force him six feet under before he had managed to extract revenge on those that had left him powerless and had tried to destroy him.

Hermione Granger would not do as an enemy _._ Her intellectual and magical prowess would keep him at bay until he managed to overpower her. Then he would take over whatever she had achieved and—

 _No_. 

Tom couldn’t do that. Reflecting over the few words of praise she had granted him with whenever she noticed him following her advice had yet to cease bringing a warm flush to his cheeks that he struggled to keep away. Perhaps... _perhaps_ he could get her to give him a few more beneficial pieces of information. She was a girl after all and most women he met on the streets lapped his honey coated words like bears. She was also a witch, a talented one at that, and he didn’t know how well his powers would stand against hers. He didn’t want to be on the offensive side of her wand, most definitely.

Tom sighed as the first drops of rain hit his barren window. It would be a cold night tonight.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diagon Alley, Ollivander & Wands.

Chapter 4

** 16th August 1938 **

Hermione bit her tongue in anger as she observed the frightened expressions Amy and Dennis adorned whenever baby Voldemort walk by. “You scared them in the cave?!” she hissed, her left eye twitching as she restrained her arm from delivering her once infamous right hook.

The boy shrugged casually with a smirk, “T’isnt my fault they are scared of darkness surrounded by rocks and water,”

The witch’s retort died in her throat when Mrs Cole called from the entrance: "Tom! You have a visitor," her body and door obscuring the vision of the guest.

Hermione hurriedly finished her food alongside Tom — mash potato and half a glass of orange juice — and cast a disillusionment charm over herself as she followed Tom following the matron and the strangely clothed man into Tom's dingy room.

Upon closer inspection, Hermione recognised the man with long, auburn hair and periwinkle robes as the future late headmaster. Flicking Tom's arm lightly, she partially removed the charm and nodded towards the mass of robes, mouthing the reason for the man's odd and spontaneous appearance: " _Wizard_ ".

His eyes widened marginally and she noticed a small flicker of life ignite within his sullen, green orbs. Quickly recasting the charm, she entered the room and leaned against Tom's cupboard before the door slammed shut and a silencing charm was applied. Hermione hoped he played naïve.

"Hello Tom." Albus greeted with a friendly yet cautious smile.

"Don't." the little boy commanded as he gazed out of the window, observing two raindrops racing each other as they trailed down the length of the glass pane. 

Dumbledore immediately retracted his hand from the small trinket he came close to touching in a small indent of brick.

"We— I'm not mad." Tom quickly corrected, mentally berating himself for his slip up. 

He did not know, but Hermione was silently praising him. Now she wouldn't have to worry about cornering Dumbledore and forcing him to allow her into Hogwarts, her second and now only home.

" _We_?" the man questioned with a lilt, a greying eyebrow raised condescendingly. 

Tom bit his lip but nodded reluctantly. "Hermione Granger." he stated, glancing in the direction of the opened door as she reappeared, feigning passing by.

"Yes, Tom?"

Dumbledore gazed at her curiously, "How odd," he mumbled to himself as he noted her matured aura. At such a young age, her magic was matured to the level that took most wizards and witches thirty or something years to reach. He plastered a practiced, grandfatherly smile as he attempted to gain the trust of the little wizard watching the interaction with an uninterpretable expression. "You can do things, can’t you Tom? Things that other children can't..."

"I can move things without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me." Tom listed with a malicious glint. "I can make them _hurt_ ," he paused, stifling a smirk as Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably under both of their gazes, "If I want."

"Who are you?" a suspicious voice asked from the doorframe. Her arms were crossed over her chest as her right hand twitched slight — a discreet wand reflex.

His gaze returned to Tom, ignoring Hermione for the time being. "I'm like you, Tom. I'm different."

"Prove it." he said, his eyes narrowing slight. 

Hermione stepped away from his cupboard as magical flames licked the old wood. She pointed her hand at it and a stream of water burst out, killing the flames. "It would be appreciated if you didn't try and char his only belongings. There's not much else to replace them." she chided sharply. A tongue too sharp for a mere eleven-year-old.

Dumbledore's gaze lingered on her for a moment before returning to Tom. "At Hogwarts you will not only be taught about magic, you will be taught how to control it." he raised his voice a fraction, indicating to the budding dark witch behind him that he too was speaking to her, "Term starts on the second of September. I shall come to pick you up to take you to Diagon Alley to help you pick up your school supplies tomorrow."

As he made to leave, he noticed Tom opening his mouth to say something. Noticing too, Hermione quickly grasped the boy’s wrist, shaking her head with a subtle warning— an action that did not go unnoticed by Albus. The young witch was an enigma — more so than Dumbledore himself. Her strange behaviour and oddly matured magic unnerved the powerful wizard to his wits end. The girl was manipulative; her sharp tongue would be able to grant her a position anywhere she liked should those currently in power manage to overlook the generic stereotypes of her gender. He hoped she would be sorted into Gryffindor, come the September sorting. That way he could keep an eye on her under the guise of a Head of House helping the new muggleborn adjust into the schooling system. 

_Was Hermione Granger a muggleborn?_ Her magic seemed far too powerful. Perhaps she was a descendant of a bastard line of one of the older family trees.

Mind whirring, Albus replaced his wizarding robes with light pyjamas as he tucked himself in his bed, thoughts continuously flitting over to the eerie Hermione Granger. _Why hadn't her name appeared in the Book of Acceptance yet, when her magic was so strong?_

Dumbledore knew he would have to ensure the girl was under covert scrutiny. The wizarding world did not need another dark sorcerer, definitely not after Grindelwald. 

**ooOoo**

** 17th August 1938 **

The rising sun greeted the anxious pair as one eagerly waited for the man to reveal the hidden world he was held captive from and the other impatiently tapped her foot in a futile attempt to give the day a kick start. 

Nine o'clock came and the grandfatherly man adorned bright orange robes with skunk-coloured feathers protruding from his orange, pointy hat.

"Professor," Hermione greeted indifferently as she clutched tightly onto one of his overly large sleeves. Tom greeted him similarly though with a hint of excitement lacing his tone.

Focusing his thoughts from the witch to apparation, Albus side-along apparated them into the Leaky Cauldron.

"I assume you know of this place?" Hermione nodded once, Tom denied the statement. "Then perhaps Miss Granger can show you the way here through London next time, Tom." Albus brandished his wand and tapped four bricks in a pattern, stepping aside to allow the children to watch as the market place revealed itself with magic.

Tom's jaw dropped slightly, his expression schooled into nonchalance after a particularly harsh pinch by the girl beside him.

Leading them to the centre of the hustle and bustle, Dumbledore trailed his query, "What should we get first? Your books, trunk, stationary?"

"Books." Tom offered, casting a side glance to Hermione who ignored him. 

Instead, the curly haired witch kept her gaze level with Albus despite the height difference; icy cognac coloured orbs locking with apprehensive sky blue. "Actually, sir, I was hoping to do my shopping alone."

"Are you sure Miss Granger? This is the first time you've been to such a busy place like Diagon Alley, I'm sure."

"Your estimate is incorrect sir." the girl sneered. It wasn't the last time it would be wrong too, only next time it would cost her friends and her pseudo-brother's _lives_. "Let's agree to meet here within an hour and retrieve Tom and I's wands together, shall we?" she didn't wait for an answer, pivoting on her heels and heading towards a shop that sold trunks of varying ranges.

Albus sighed as he wondered how the girl would find the finance to pay for her things. Tom's eyes trailed after the witch, assessing the cold manner in which she spoke to the fairly likeable man whose robes he was still clinging on to. Ripping his hand away as though the fabric had burnt him, Tom gestured towards the crooked sign reading Flourish and Blotts. "Textbooks, sir?"

**ooOoo**

"How much will this one be, sir?" Hermione asked, pointing at a black, second-hand trunk that seemed to be in an almost pristine condition. 

"That there, girl, w’ll cost ya ten galleons." the shop owner responded gruffly as he chewed through an apple.

"Could you please explain the charms and functionalities?"

"Pre-woven shrinking charm so it can fit in ye purse if need be; temperature charmed sections for potions and ingredients; a few secret compartments that link either to ye blood or ye magical signature—" the man listed.

"— does it, by any chance, have some kind of undetectable library or extension charm? If not, do any of your other trunks have some?" Hermione interjected politely.

"Undetectable I'm not quite so sure lassy, but a library organiser if that's what ye's searching for is in there." the shop owner answered as he scratched his chin. "That trunk ye holdin' belonged to a _Black_ child. It's pro'ly one of the best ones on me rack. Second-hand or not."

Hermione raised a contemplative eyebrow. She could store some of her Black Family tomes that she had stolen from Grimmauld place within the trunk and once it had been tethered to her magical signature, the Black trunk would protect its family's contents with its own form of magical protection from everyone but her. Black blood or other.

A smirk twisted her lips. "Would you mind adding in a feather weight charm?"

“That’ll knock it up to fifteen,”

"I'll take it." she said as she dropped fifteen golden coins into the palm of his hand. 

**ooOoo**

Dumbledore was getting on his nerves. The consistent questioning of his life at the orphanage and what living with — what did he say they were called? _Muggles_? — was like among other things instantaneously lowered the high pedestal he had given the old coot.

" _Have you ever used a tele-fon_ é?”

That's not how you pronounce telephone, dimwit.

_"I don't know how muggles did it, but Coaler Roasters are so much fun! My beard nearly left me!"_

Good for you.

" _Rubber ducks. What exactly is its function?_ "

Tom wanted to gauge the shrivelled raisin's eyeballs out and seal his mouth shut with them; superglue his lips together for extra measure. They were waiting for Granger to meet them in the centre of the Alley when they noticed her chatting with the librarian — Mr Flourish. Both had wide grins stretching from ear to ear as they parted with what looked to be a final joke. Bidding each other farewell, Hermione made her way towards them and greeted them. 

Tom swore that had been the first time he had seen the stoic girl smile. Her expressions rarely ever shifted from their disinterest, cold, calculating looks.

"Ready to get our wands?" she asked Tom, ignoring Dumbledore's presence. Observing the smaller boy's frustrated appearance hidden behind a practiced mask of indifference, Hermione smirked inwardly as she knew he regretted his decision in staying with the old man.

"Let's go." he grumbled, avoiding eye contact with either party. 

Entering through a grimy door, the trio stepped foot into a dingy room. Shelves upon shelves loaded with plain boxes and random pieces of splintered wood.

 _Broken bits of blinds_ , Tom absently noted. 

"Albus!" a jovial old man, most likely of similar age to the professor, greeted. "It has been a while good friend!"

"Indeed Garrick." he smiled, his hand gesturing to the short children behind him. "We're here to purchase wands for the new students."

"Of course!" the man babbled about remembering every wand he sold and how he spent an immense amount of time and effort in creating these wands that are wielded on a daily. "My boy, I can sense the strong power you emit. Unicorn hair won't do. Dragon Heart String maybe?" he said as he handed Tom a sleek, white box. 

Grasping the bland wood in his hand, Tom stared blankly at the man.

"Well? Give it a wave!" he said expectantly, face contorting into a grimace as a fire torch fell down. "No no, that won't do."

"Perhaps this one?" he handed over another dragon heartstring core wand. "Ten and three quarter inches, decent flexibility, vine wood." 

Hermione's eyes widened as she recognised the properties of her own wand in the future. _Would the same wand bond with her now?_ She couldn't feel the familiar welcoming aura it smothered her with when in close proximity. Bloody hell, she didn't want Voldemort to get her wand!

The wand didn't work for him. Hermione stopped herself from expressing her relief aloud.

"Perhaps..." Ollivander trailed off as he retreated to the back room to fetch another wand. The dark haired boy had begun to become impatient as his hand slowly curled into fists inside his trouser pockets. It had been an hour and he still hadn't managed to bond with a wand and they had to find Granger's chosen too. When the wand maker arrived after a solid ten minutes spent in awkward silence, Hermione studied his pensive, curious expression. "This wand," he introduced as he set the box down delicately on the table, "Is one of two rare wands created from the core of a phoenix's feather." 

"Fawkes?" Dumbledore quipped, the twinkle in his eyes increasing in intensity as the man nodded his assent.

"Thirteen and one half inches, Yew wood, phoenix feather core." he described, "Try."

Tom reached for the bond-white wand, his fingers curling around its shaft as he held it with utmost care. Twirling it, he watched in amazement as everything he had destroyed previously, returned to its original state. 

The man grinned, "I think we've finally found the wand that has chosen you." He turned to Hermione, "I think I have the perfect Unicorn hair wand for you."

Hermione held back a snarl, insulted at the subconscious degradation the man imposed on her for her sex. She humoured him though, lazily flicking the wand as it caused an insurmountable of disarray. 

"Nope. Not unicorn hair." he sounded amused. "Quite a surprise, there haven't been many girls that bond with any other."

"Try, dragon heart string, ten and three quarter inches, vine wood." Hermione picked up the wand expectantly, reverently hoping for the bond to re-establish as they connected for the first time in eight months. With a hesitant breath, the young witch drew her wand in a circular motion, attempting to cast Leviosa with it on the box it had been presented in, only for it to fail by not rising at all. It was as though the wand had decided that she had changed far too much to be reliable as its wielder.

Swallowing a disheartened sigh, Hermione set it down and shook her head. "Another one please?" she asked politely. They ciphered through many, the clock now nearing one-fifteen and Hermione had yet to find a wand. "Maybe one from the back?" she offered as Ollivander the sexist hadn't thought that she was worthy of some of the more powerful woods or cores. 

The man sighed and massaged his temples. "Albus, do you think it'd be worth letting the girl's magic call for the wand?"

Albus offered a shrug, "No harm in trying," He was curious too.

Ollivander peered at the girl. "Right, deary, all you have to do is imagine your magic as a big ball of light and send it through the back door."

Hermione pressed her tongue against her cheek, her eyes roaming over the man's face before agreeing and closing her eyes. Picturing a beginner's patronus wisp, Hermione sent forth her magic into the store, allowing it to search for the wand that had deemed her competent enough. _What if there wasn't a wand for her in this time?_ she panicked, her heart rate increasing as she desperately urged her magic to search. Though wandless was certainly an asset, specific rituals and such required pure magic channelled through a core & that was what initially brought wandlore into business.

A powerful tug jerked her towards the counter. Her hands gripped onto the edge of the wooden desk as a sleek, black box flew into the room and landed gracefully on it, knocking Ollivander's glasses on its way. Opening the box, the wand maker gasped in surprise as he studied the rather ornate stick. "Ten and one three-quarter inches, _cherry wood, arctic ice dragon venom core_ — an extremely rare core indeed."

"Why is it so rare?" Dumbledore inquired as though he had read the question from her mind. Hermione could not care in that moment as she felt a strange thrumming synchronising with the beats of her pulse. 

"It's practically the complete opposite of the young lad’s wand there," he said, pointing a frail finger towards Tom. "Ice dragon venom cores have a particular affinity in choosing those who are cool and calculating and those who have some form of connection with ice. It understands the wixen at a deeper level than most other cores as it matches its own peculiar warmth with the wixen's own."

"And the cherrywood? What's different between yew and cherrywood?" Tom asked inquisitively as he twirled his bone-white wand in his hands. 

"Not much, my dear boy. They are both rarely sold woods of mine and are wielded by only powerful, competent partners. Your wands properties are mostly very picky."

Hermione looked at the reddish-brown tinted stick with silvery patterns crawling from the handle up the shaft with a new found interest.

 _Powerful_ , no doubt. _Bond with ice_? Hermione would need to research that. 

Oh how she couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter 5

** 1st September 1938 **

"Is he having a laugh? There's no three quarters of a platform!" Tom growled out as he glared at the Hogwarts Express ticket as thought it had offended him. “It’s impossible and evidently unreal,”

"It's very real, Riddle." Hermione responded calmly as she walked towards the camouflaged portal. They had departed from the orphanage early, choosing to spend some time in London as they waited for the train to arrive. It had been awkward speaking to each other for during their stay at Wool's, very few words were passed between them save for the healing incident as they had mutually begun to name it. They stopped in front of a brick wall. "If you're nervous," she said, "Run through it."

Tom's eyes raked over the bricks. "You go first." he commanded.

Although normally Hermione would reprimand him for his tone, she truly didn't feel like wasting energy on the bossy little boy. _Is this what I was like in first year?_ she wondered idly.

Rolling her eyes, she stepped a few paces backwards before pushing her cart through the wall with force. The feeling of becoming tangled up inside a large blanket washed over her until the air freshened and she realised she was standing on the other side. Moving out of the way, Hermione quickly cast a feather weight charm on her trunk (despite a stronger one weaved through the material the witch wasn’t quite certain that her malnourished form could handle the lightened weight yet), lifting it off of the trolly and discarding it to the side. Tom came barrelling through the portal moments later, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Having fun?" she commented dryly as the boy continued gazing back at the wall he came from.

"How are you not surprised?"

"I've been here before."

"You've been to Hogwarts?"

"No," she lied, "I've been here to drop a family friend off a few times."

"Oh."

Hermione cocked her head to the side, "Did you meet anybody whilst you went shopping with the professor?" she asked as the familiar scarlet vessel’s rhythmic chugging slowly came to a halt beside the platform with a loud hiss of steam. It was an hour earlier than its estimated arrival time. "Sir!" she hollered, garnering the attention of one of the workers who had jumped onto the platform, "May we board until departure?"

The man raised two fingers, signalling for them to wait as he twirled his wand in a manner Hermione recognised as a cleansing charm. Nodding his assent, the young witch promptly pulled her trunk onto the train and searched for a comfortable looking compartment. Subconsciously, her feet had begun to travel in the direction of the self-appointed Gryffindor section — Harry, Ron and her own usual compartment.

Tom pulled her sleeve, pointing towards the Slytherin end. "There are better looking seats there." he said as he left in the direction.

She could sit here, make friends with whom she hoped would be in her house — whom she hoped she would be sorted with. Or, she could sit among the names of power, gain their trust and overpower the current powers. Having not the faintest clue as to what the war against Voldemort had done to her— magically and personality wise, she made her decision. Following Tom, she allowed the courteous boy to place her trunk beside his on the rack above as she took a seat opposite him. Stretching her legs, she placed them on her bench seat, leaning against the window for support. "Did you meet anybody whilst you were shopping with the professor?" she repeated, her attention solely on his frail frame.

"No."

Clicking her tongue, she brandished her new wand, twirling it between her fingers as she spoke. "Do not interrupt." she said curtly before switching into lecture-mode, "Like in the muggle world, there is a hierarchy here. Those born from magical parents who were also born from magical parents are known as purebloods — the highest and currently with the most power."

“Magical power?”

“No.” she denied, “They are at an advantage of having familial magic but the type of power I am on about is political.”

He didn’t react.

"Then there are people like us, to an extent. Those born of non magical parents. In polite society we're known as muggleborns, or slurred as mudbloods."

"So we're the lowest?"

Pursing her lips, she nodded once. "I have my doubts on it though. We're a fair bit more powerful than the muggleborns I have come in contact with." she cleared her throat, "Half-bloods are children with one muggleborn parent and one pureblood or one half-blood and one pureblood or one muggle born and one half-blood.

"There are several families that are pure blooded, though the older families are part of a category named the Sacred Twenty Eight— the elite of the elite. Granger and Riddle are not names within either of those categories, and although majority of the houses are somewhat tolerant of muggleborns, Slytherin House are not." she paused and cast a sideways glance, "You have read _Hogwarts a History_ , right?"

"Yes." Tom nodded, "So I should present myself as a pureblood? From a bastard line maybe?"

Hermione shook her head no, her shadow-self chastising her lack of care for his chosen phrasing. "Wouldn't work, all the purebloods — secrets and everything — would know we're lying. We have to pass off as halfbloods. It's our safest bet and a good excuse for our muggle tendencies."

"Muggle tendencies?"

"Chess, for example, isn't played by hand. You command the pieces to move by voice. Knight to E4, that kind of thing rather than picking it up and physically moving it."

The slytherin heir made a noise of understanding.

"This has to stay between us, you understand?"

"I know, Granger."

Hermione relaxed slightly, a small smile forming. "What house do you think you'll be sorted into?" she asked conversationally.

"Slytherin. Don't have a chance with any other."

Hermione smirked, "Not even Gryffindor? I thought it was rather courageous of you for attempting — and succeeding — in killing Jill’s pet bunny."

Tom sneered, "They seem too... they preach loyalty and are light magic users but what is the true difference between dark and light magic?"

"I'm not sure yet." Hermione lied. She knew the differences, but she knew both types could result in similar fates, "I heard there's a library, I'm gonna research."

"And you?" Tom asked, referring to the sorting.

"I don't know." she replied honestly, her gaze fixated on a flock of birds flying above the station.

"I think Ravenclaw. You're intelligent—"

Hermione grinned, "First time I've heard you compliment somebody, Riddle."

The boy grumbled, "Last time too. Or maybe Slytherin," he continued, "You're cunning — the Luke Smith tragedy for example — and there's no doubt you have some kind of evil ambition that-"

"Evil ambition?" Hermione mused, internally laughing as although she most certainly had an ambition, the morality of it depended on whose side you perceived it from. On the one hand she was saving the world from the future she had the ill opportune to suffer through whereas on the other hand she was giving the cause of her suffering another chance. Maybe a friendship with Riddle wouldn’t be so repulsive if he kept her as amused as she was.

"W-well, uhh.." he stammered before collecting himself, "Wool's isn't nice. Even I want to take revenge on them."

"You make me sound as though I'm Lady Macbeth." the witch snorted, "How are you paying for everything?"

"I think the question is how are _you_ paying for everything?" he countered, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"I have my methods. You should get a job sometime soon. Christmas hols maybe?" she countered vaguely.

Tom made a noise of agreement, eyes wandering around their compartment before locking onto her. "You have a job?" he nearly exclaimed despite his words being whispered.

"And? You're going to snitch?" Hermione made a show of pointing her wand at him threateningly. She still couldn't truly fathom how they were holding a conversation despite having not spoken to each other for the better part of the year.

"Where do you work?" he asked, "How and when did you manage to get it?"

"I work in a library, nothing fascinating."

"When?"

"Another reason why I didn't want to go with Dumbledore. He would've ruined my chances at getting it." she lied, internally astonished at how easy lying had become.

Tom pursed his lips. "He's suspicious of you, you know. Dumbledore. I'm not sure why."

Hermione sat up, leaning on the edge of her seat. "Riddle, when Dumbledore came for you in the orphanage, what were you going to say as he left?"

"I- what?"

"Answer my question." she glared coldly.

"Snakes. I can speak to snakes. I was going to ask if it was normal and then you pinched me. What for, may I ask?" he snarled, his finger prodding the flesh under his elbow.

Licking her dry lips, Hermione leaned back and nodded to herself. "Be bloody grateful I stopped you otherwise you'd be the one under his radar."

"So it's not common?"

"No, and I suppose your ability to mind-read isn't either." she said calmly, her gaze never faltering from his.

Tom swallowed. How had she noticed it? He was always extremely careful, none of the other kids had noticed a presence in their minds— not that he made a habit of looking, they were quite dismal in both thought and action. Perhaps it had something to do with the indestructible walls surrounding her mind. He had reached out to touch them once, only to receive an electric shock in return.

"Busted?" he plastered a sheepish grin.

Hermione shot him a pointed look.

"How come your mind is blocked off?" she knew now, what had Tom got to lose?

"Is it?" she looked at him what could only be perceived as shock. "I hadn't known."

Before he could ask another question that had been sitting heavily in his mind for some time, the sound of chatter and the door opening halted their civil conversation. A boy with platinum blonde hair, grey eyes and a suffocating haughty attitude came in.

"First years too?"

Tom agreed.

"Sweet, can we sit here?"

Tom moved to decline but a harsh kick to the shin from Granger made him clamp his trap shut.

"Of course, Malfoy is it?" she greeted with a friendly smile, her words dipped in honey.

Seemingly pleased at the recognition, the blonde boy lifted her hand and placed a kiss to her knuckles — a feat Tom had only seen done by upper class adults. "Abraxas Malfoy, and you, milady?"

Hermione decided she quite liked the sound of that. My Lady. Shaking away her tyrannical thoughts, she said, "Hermione Granger."

Abraxas' grip faltered, "Granger? You're not a mudblood are you?" he sneered, his eyes darting swiftly between their hands and her own.

"Muggle raised." she corrected.

Pale and almost pointy dropped her arm immediately and snarled. "We will not sit with mudblood filth."

"Can't sit with mudblood filth when there isn't any around." she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, resisting the urge to flinch at the slur, "But if you are going to continue, feel free to leave." with a wave of her hand, a gust of frosty air pushed the boy out of their compartment; and with another, the blinds were drawn and the door slammed shut.

"What did you do that for?" Tom hissed angrily. The girl had just told him to play friendly with them and went around like a hypocrite, making the powerful the enemies.

"Count to three." was all she said with a small smirk as she leaned back leisurely.

_1._

They could hear hushed voiced talking with each other.

 _2_.

"I don't think they are," an intelligent sounding voice added, "I can see their auras, they're powerful."

_3._

The door squeaked open, revealing the same group of boys.

Abraxas — who seemed to be the de facto leader — mumbled his apologies for pointing accusations and calling them derogatory comments.

Hermione smiled serenely and ignored the blonde, "Nott." she greeted with a grateful nod.

"Thoros, please." he smiled, kissing her knuckles like Malfoy had, unfazed at her prior knowledge of his name. _She was intelligent and he knew it._

"Hermione." gesturing towards the quiet, observant boy, she introduced, "And this is Tom Riddle. _Muggle_ _raised_." she stressed on raised.

The final boy, with features eerily similar to the doting Sirius Black she had come to grow fond of, bowed courteously at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he introduced himself as Cygnus Black. The boys nodded at each other, neither offering a word, prompting Hermione to roll her eyes. _Boys._

Adjusting herself properly, her hands laid primly in her lap as she subtly leaned against the window. "What houses are you expecting to be sorted into?" she questioned with lack of any other subject to converse about. It was a dismal topic however should this meeting allow them to form a sort of bond she was sure they would be able to come up with something other than the latest attacks by Voldemort and House Sortings.

Abraxas scoffed as though the question was absurd, "Slytherin, obviously. All the Malfoys have been," he stated proudly.

Thoros nodded his assent, "Nott's too, though there have been a few sorted into Ravenclaw."

"—Which is forgivable. Better those than the other poor excuses."

"What's so bad about Gryffindor and Hufflepuff?" Tom asked with intrigue. Despite his mind firmly set on being sorted into Slytherin, additional knowledge regarding his other peers' characteristics wouldn't harm him.

Cygnus snorted. "They're weak, that's what."

"Hufflepuffs are too kind for their own good. To them the world is about amity and love and other such frivolous things." Malfoy chimed.

"Gryffindors are brash. They act without planning. They speak without thinking. They turn on each other in public whereas any conflict in slytherin remains behind slytherin walls." Thoros added, unknowingly eliciting a strong desire for violence within the ex-Gryffindor. 

Swallowing her ire, she smiled. "I'm sure not every individual is like that."

Lies. They were all like that. Her house had excluded her, ostracised her merely because of the intimidation they felt around her intelligence. And they were thoroughly incorrect about Hufflepuff. A large majority of the house of badgers had remained behind to portkey the younger years to safety, away from the mortifying battle occurring on the grounds many considered their second home. Cedric Diggory, the strong, courageous hufflepuff who had died by the wand of Lord Voldemort — the very boy she shared a roof with, the very boy she had taught the societal hierarchy to, the very boy she was helping in navigating around the wizarding world. It was knowledge she — and undoubtedly Tom Riddle had in the original timeline — had been denied the privileged of learning due to their arrival from the _filthy_ _muggle world_. Over the years she had learned to mimic the trained purebloods, Daphne Greengrass in particular given Pansy Parkinson seemed to have forgotten all of her morals, whilst embedding her parents' own rules regarding social appearance. 

A couple of tweaks to fit the gender and Tom would slot in like the half blood prince he could've been.

Hermione, however? She didn't know how or what to do save for the limited knowledge she had gained amidst battles after battles during her eighteen years of existence. Sticking by Tom, gaining his trust, recruiting him would be the more efficient and beneficial way to survive. At least until 1979. Whether she would be reborn into her younger body again and experience puberty for the third time, she didn't know. All she knew was that her end goal was to stop Lord Voldemort from ever coming to power and terrorizing the innocent civilians. 

Especially Harry. He deserved a restful life. Even if it meant going against her greying morals and the incessant light preaching Dumbledore had done; even if it meant succumbing to Dumbledore's suspicion and becoming the next dictatorial _Dark Lady_.

She would do it for herself, for Tom and for Harry if need be.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter 6

** 1st September 1938 ** ** (Cont.) **

A small smile blossomed over her childish features as the welcoming wards of Hogwarts smoothed over her when she trespassed over the boundary of the docks. Ogg, the game keeper given that Hagrid was attending as a student (and he wasn't hard to spot either, his height towering over the small first years and the gruff man himself), allowed the children to marvel at the sight of the castle. The very same castle that she had been hiding within as she cast spells after spells with the intent and definite potential to maim and kill. The castle that had been her refuge, her home away from home despite the many security breaches accumulated by the Dark Lord. The castle that she had cried, matured, strengthened and overcome obstacles that no child of her age should've managed to do.

"McGonagall, Minerva!" Dumbledore bellowed from his position by the sorting hat and stool.

"Gryffindor!"

So ensconced in her thoughts, Hermione hadn't noticed her feet moving on their own accord as they were led inside for the sorting.

Anticipation brewed in her stomach, her heart thumping erratically in her chest as the register had begun nearing G's. Subconsciously, the pad of her thumb brushed over her warded ring, a small, disadvantageous habit she had picked up during her stay at the gruesome orphanage. At first she had done so in order to ensure that it was still there — that her past that nobody would ever know was still with her. However, as time had passed, it had become second nature for whenever she felt an immense amount of discomfort. Hermione concluded that the cool concealment of her past that the wards emitted had a calming effect on her magic, thus resulting in her own emotional turmoil to be subdued into something that she could either manifest for power or lock away until she had the time to decipher them properly.

"Granger, Hermione!" the familiar twinkle in her future headmaster's eyes were absent as he observed the slightly bushy haired girl clamber onto the stool. Placing the sorting hat on top of her unkempt hair that kind of resembled a lion’s mane, he was slightly bewildered at the length of time the hat had taken to sort her. 

_**'My, Miss Granger,'**_ the hat let out a low whistle as he slipped through the small, ice opening that Hermione had granted for the hat to enter through. _**'Your occlumency is impressive. Never have I seen such a complex, cold maze.'**_

 _Thank you_ , she thought primly, _though I am a bit unsure how I created the maze._

_**'Not only that, you have suffered through a great deal of grief. Everything, from petty name calling to a raging war! You are incredibly strong, Hermione Granger, I must commend you.'** _

Hermione didn't reply as the sorting hat sifted through some older memories, instead choosing to focus on keeping her expression neutral as images of faces she missed dearly prompted her eyes to moisten on their own accord.

_**'Ancient ritual to time travel; being raised in an orphanage side by side with the nose-less monster from your past; oh— what is this? Gryffindor?'** _

_Yes, I was a Gryffindor. Would you please hurry up and place me in there or Ravenclaw? People are talking._

_**'As much as you would love to return to Gryffindor tower, I fear you will find yourself more at home in the dungeons.'** _

_Hufflepuff_?

_**'No, Miss Granger. As loyal and friendly and powerful as the Hufflepuff House are — courageous too if that strapping lad in the Tri-wizard tournament was in the house of badgers — most of them would fear your power that you have yet to discover.'** _

_What power?_

_**'That I cannot tell you until it presents it to yourself first. All I can say is that it has a relation with your wand and a certain creature lurking within the castle.'** _

Hermione groaned internally. _Couldn't anything just ever be told straightforward?_

The hat chuckled, _ **'You are destined for wondrous things, Miss Granger, and should you need help after your first display, do not hesitate to simply call Hatiddy Hat for I will come and aid you along your journey. Enjoy your stay, I do hope that it will be better than your last.'**_

and with the ending of its internal monologue, the ragged hat yelled out, "Slytherin!"

Her countenance stone cold, Hermione didn't fail to notice the scowl on Dumbledore's thin lips deepen as she made her way to the green and silver clad table with her head held high.

"Hagrid, Rubeus!" Dumbledore smiled when the hat sorted the half giant into Gryffindor.

Hermione hid her frown behind her hand, feigning a yawn. Hagrid had always been nice to her, but now she was unsure. From what she recalled in a few diaries and accounts written and told by Sirius, the house rivalry was worse than it had been in the 90s. He was in red and gold. She was in green and silver. The two most clashing houses with a rivalry that aged back to the time of the Four Founders. A friendship now would be practically impossible without being classed as a traitor in one form or another. Additionally, she had just made friendly with two of the old pureblood families whilst lying about her blood status. Despite having claimed to being a halfblood, half wasn't nearly as influential as pure.

She had to choose her friendships like she had chosen her battles during the war. The witch liked neither option in both scenarios.

Hermione swallowed thickly, bidding a silent farewell to her only human connections to her past. She had been absently hoping to build a rapport, a friendship, with her former transfigurations teacher; but McGonagall was pretty biased against Slytherins in the 90s, undoubtedly a factor that had remained the same from her school days. Hermione Jean Granger would no longer learn transfiguration under the tutelage of Professor McGonagall. No, Hermione Luna Granger would now be placed under the accusatory gaze of her former now future headmaster.

**ooOoo**

The young yet not witch savoured the taste of an exquisite soup swirling down her throat after years of having not eaten a proper meal. Scraps of food during hiding as the war raged on and rationing in the era she had dumped herself in had caused her body to emaciate to extents she did not know of as possible. Beside her, Tom followed suit in devouring more than what was polite without looking greedy.

The slytherins, much to her surprise, had been fairly pleasant in behaviour. Once one of the older years had caught the tail end of Malfoy questioning whether they even fed the children in the orphanage they resided at, they had become the subjects to a multitude of sympathetic gazes. Though the sympathy would be useful during any manipulation she may have to use in the future, the most prominent benefactor came from their budding _friendships_ with Black, Malfoy and Nott. 

The prefect, Perseus Parkinson (ancestor of Pansy Parkinson from the 90s), had winked at the duo as he vanished some food back into their respective dormitories. "Can't have Slytherin looking weak," was his excuse as he vanished a final loaf of bread.

The first years were led down; Hermione having to constantly nibble on her lower lip lest she reveal her familiarity with the castle by accidentally leading them through a shortcut. They finally reached a portrait of a devious looking king with a snake curled by his feet at the base of the throne.

"This is Herpo the Foul who graciously permitted himself as the guard to the Slytherin Dungeons." Perseus explained, "The password is _Serpens Revelio_. Be aware that it changes every Sunday at two hours till midnight, failure of knowledge of the new password will result in the punishments deemed for roaming after curfew. Understand?"

Hermione nodded along with the rest of the first years, her eyes occasionally drifting towards Tom whom she had not spoken to since their departure of the Express. His green eyes were alive and alert, soaking in as much of the exterior appearance of the hidden common room in order to locate it later on. For once, the guarded look he always harboured had dissolved into something more akin to caution than defence. He looked almost happy as the painted snake tilted its head at the boy.

Entering the dimly lit common room, Hermione gazed at the luxurious albeit dark décor. As opposed to the deep burgundy sofas that adorned the Gryffindor Common Room, a series of black leather sofa's sat back to back with large coffee tables in the centre — much like in the self-proclaimed Slytherin section on The Express. Where in Gryffindor Tower the residents were greeted with the warm glare of the morning sun, the Slytherin Dungeons looked under the surface of the Black Lake; mermaids occasionally swam by as well as the rare sighting of a tentacle of the Giant Squid. The joyous raucousness of her former house was replaced with hushed whispering intent on maintaining secrets whilst extracting others— the perfect volume for studying, Hermione mused.

Education. The curriculum was far more gruelling in Hermione's original time than now. She had been taught how to repel boggarts in third year and now she would repeat that lesson in her sixth unless she managed to convince the governers to shift it for everyone under the guise of safety from the threat of Grindelwald. Note-taking would be both time and parchment wasting for her as thankfully she had retained her knowledge and instincts from war despite having aged backwards and dropped half a century into the past. Though top grades were essential in order to acquire a stable job (which would be difficult to acquire regardless of her N.E.W.T scores due to her being a girl), the young witch had considered that perhaps she could travel after completing her final examinations in order to pursue and search for undiscovered/soon to be discovered magics.

The idea was tantalising.

For now though, until her final NEWT, she would resort to discovering all of the secrets Hogwarts had to offer. She would help morph the wizarding world into one where children of her age in the future generations would not be put under the stress of defeating Lord Voldemort, and nor would they have to fall prey to Albus Dumbledore's accusatory pinpointing and subtle manipulations.

Plans, plans, she had much to do before the ideal world was created. For now Hermione had little else to do but to befriend the pureblooded girls she was trapped with in her slytherin dormitory.

"Druella Rosier," a sweet, polite voice introduced with a curtsy. 

"Dorea Black,"

"Irma Crabbe,"

Hermione allowed a small smile to filter through her cool mask, "Hermione Granger,"

The beady eyes of the soon-to-be members of the House of Black assessed her demure yet powerful stance. She could feel them eyeing her second hand robe that had been transfigured permanently to feign the richest material that Madame Malkin had sold. Her shoes, simple black Mary Janes with a modest heel and her usually unruly hair charmed into soft curls that fell over her shoulders. 

"I've never heard of the Granger Family before," Irma sniffed with a sneer, "You're not a _mudblood_ are you?

Biting her tongue to prevent the snarky remark threatening to escape her lips, Hermione merely smiled and shook her head in denial. "I'm not entirely sure given that I do not know my parents, though with my power I can only assume that I am at least a halfblood."

She heard Dorea whisper to her future kin that had yet to comment on her presence, "She speaks well, don't you think? Poor girl doesn't know her parents... I think if we teach her right, she'll be the perfect bride for any family wishing to sully their bloodline."

Druella nodded and whispered back, "She might be a pureblood for all we know – a late bloomer mistaken for a squib - forced to live with _muggles_ ," the word fell off of her tongue with disgust.

Dorea smiled and pushed Irma to the side. "Would you mind showing us this power?"

Hermione had expected this. She raised her right hand upwards and twisted it in circles, allowing her magic to spread from her core and embed itself in the strands of Dorea's sleek, dark hair. Druella and she watched in awe as the silky strands curled and twisted around each other until they stopped when her style resembled that of when Hermione had attended the Yule Ball in her fourth year.

Irma watched in disbelief and a flicker of approval flashed in her eyes as she nodded. "Definitely not a mudblood."

Hermione smiled serenely and dragged her trunk towards the bed furthest from the door, opposite the window emitting a green hue. Sitting on the silk sheeted bed, she observed that the bedding was far comfier than that of Gryffindor Tower. "I will be claiming this bed for the rest of the school year." she said with a tone of finality, ceasing any protests that would have come had she not spoken.

The reason for her insistence was that beside her bed was a darkened alcove in which she could charm and ward to resemble a wall. While the three pureblooded witches resorted in tucking away their trunks under their respective beds, Hermione ensured that hers would be well protected from any mischievous pranks like her unborn friend, Luna Lovegood, had become victim to for her eccentricity. 

Just as she had finished unpacking her menial amount of clothing, Dorea piped, "Is that a second hand trunk?"

Hermione instantly went rigid, her stance becoming defensive. "And?"

The girl held her hands up by her shoulders, surrendering, "Nothing, Granger, I just recognised it is all."

Inhaling deeply, she nodded and offered for the girl to call her by her given name.

"As long as you call me Dorea."

The girls shared a quick smile, the clearing of tension alleviating Hermione's mood as she relished in the acceptance of Harry's grandmother. 

Perhaps Hogwarts would be happier this time around.

**ooOoo**

Without Granger's guidance, Tom realised that he was a fair bit lost in this foreign world he had been thrusted into. Luckily for him, he shared his dormitory with Malfoy, Black and Nott whom he had already acquainted himself with on the Express. 

The boys had quickly chosen their beds and were now sitting on the floor together, explaining to the dark haired boy the wonders of quidditch and riding on brooms. 

"I've never even heard of this game you talk so fondly about." he admitted, almost shyly. His roommates' reactions were something comical as each boy's jaw dropped in exasperation at the fact. Then they had brought it upon themselves to ensure that Tom would become Slytherin's top seeker by the end of the year.

"—of course, you will have to buy your own broom. The school brooms are absolute atrocities, so says Father," Malfoy prattled on, stopping when Tom grimaced and admitted to not being able to afford.

"Pish posh!" Malfoy exclaimed, nearly eliciting a snort from the apathetic boy as the pronunciation came off characteristically strange from a boy at their age, "Father will buy you a broom, if not, Mother will convince him to buy you one."

Thoros nodded his agreement, "You've got three of the most influential, richest houses wanting you to get a broom. Money is no longer a problem. Whatever you want, just ask us or our mothers. Women love to dote on poor children."

That Tom could agree on. Whenever he could escape the orphange, Tom would beg on the streets for scraps of food or money and more times than most it was elderly women dropping a few shillings into his trembling hand. 

_"Such a handsome little boy," they would coo whilst they ruffled his neatly parted hair, "May you be blessed in more ways than one for your suffering."_

Perhaps this was one of the blessings that had been bestowed upon him. Perhaps the second was Hermione Granger. Tom bared them a small smile of appreciation, "As long as you get a few things for Granger too, she's helped me a lot."

Cygnus snorted, "Nah, with Dorea there she'll end up having her own room in our house by Yule."

 _I could get used to this_ , Tom thought as his fingers curled around the soft material of the quilt shielding him from the chilly air of the luxurious dungeon.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First lesson at Hogwarts.

Chapter 7

** 2nd September 1938 - First Year **

After almost nine months of relatively peaceful slumber, the nightmares induced by the terrors that occurred on the very soil that she now slept on jolted Hermione upright within her luxury sheets as she attempted to capture her breath.

"Aguamenti," she stuttered, her wand trembling in her grasp as she conjured a glass of water that she wolfed down, exhaling in relief as the soothing texture of the cool liquid slid down her sore throat.

Thoroughly chastising herself for neglecting to throw up silencing charms around her chamber, Hermione glanced at the clock ticking rhythmically by the door. As per usual, the dial relayed that it was merely five in the morning, similar to the hour she normally awoke in the orphanage habitually in order to escape the loud bangs and clangs of pots and pans used by Mrs Cole as an alarm.

It was also a habit from her war.

In the silence of Slytherin, Hermione stealthily bathed and dressed, allowing herself to linger under the luxurious hot temperatures streaming out of an equally luxurious shower head. It had been some time since she had last had a bath as pleasant and comfortable as this, for in the orphanage, showering was haste in case a notorious male came inside without care.

There weren't locks on the degrading doors and though she ensured wards were thrown up, they didn't make her invisible.

The first year witch stared at her school-purchased clothes with disdain, mentally appraising herself for literally shoving all of her belongings inside her ring. Though her future tie and outer robes were now of little use given that they were of a modern design that did not exist, Hermione had smartly splurged (barely given that it had barely made a dent in her secret fortune) on her uniform whilst tucking away the second hand robes the school offered for the poor.

 _I'm richer than all of the ancient pureblood families combined_ , Hermione mused with a small grin as she slipped on the soft, grey cardigan.

The uniforms were a far cry yet so similar to the Gryffindor robes tucked inside her ring. The outer winter and summer cloaks remained fairly unchanged and the white shirt and stockings remained too. The pleated skirts were definitively longer in length — more of a pencil skirt than anything — and girls were allowed (not mandatory) to wear a gymslip over their shirts. Hermione had noticed many of the girls in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw wearing them (in the prefects section of a book detailing the past and previous prefects and head students in her search for more information regarding Tom Riddle in her true era) and began contemplating whether she should wear it too. However, once she had slipped into the material, she instantly removed it as it constricted her movements and overall felt uncomfortable.

_They looked like rags anyway._

Donning her grey cardigan with her house crest— which had been burgundy robe in the 90s— she fastened the links of her outer robe with the Slytherin crest on her left breast and proceeded into the common room.

As she quietly shut the door to her dormitory after casting necessary, impenetrable and (to an extent) undetectable wards around her belongings that drained a good portion of her magic, she noticed a lone figure sitting by the fire, basking in its warmth in his solitude. The dark curls neatly trimmed and combed allowed her to conclude that it was the very same boy whom she had been fighting against as a man in the 90s - Tom. She manoeuvred around the multitude of elegant sofas and took a seat opposite him. "Morning, Riddle."

"Granger," he nodded in acknowledgment before returning to gazing at the crackling hearth. His expression twisted into a grimace as he thought vigorously about something, as though what he would say next would deeply wound him. "I wanted to say... thank you." he finally said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow questioningly, her face otherwise blank, "For what?"

Tom noticed that the witch swapped the placement of the determiner. Usually (subconsciously) people tended to ask 'What for', forcing the thanker to consider whether they have the correct person and whether what they are expressing gratitude for is worth it. By phrasing it the way she had, he understood that she knew that she had aided him more than once and thus was referring to which act he was thanking her for.

_Clever._

"Stopping me from making... irreversible mistakes."

Hermione internally sighed, her school bag resting comfortably on her lap. She couldn't fathom why her reaction was such, so she chose to pin the blame on the restless sleep she received due to her nightmare. "Quid pro quo, Riddle," she replied before standing up, "Let's go; breakfast will start soon and I quite fancy scoffing a bit before our housemates arrive."

Tom smirked and offered her his arm like he had seen some of the older students do. Hermione waved it off, claiming that he could attempt such niceties when they were a little older and suspiciously lead them to the Great Hall with ease.

"How did you know exactly where to go?"

Hermione stilled as she bit her cheek in recognition of her mistake. "I remembered some significant portraits when we were taken to the common room last night and just guessed in trying to find them," she shrugged, hoping that he'd believe her lie.

The green eyed boy searched her eyes for something before reluctantly resigning. They entered the quiet hall, noting that only two other students and the herbology professor were present. The two students both seemed to be older than them and in Hufflepuff respectively. Hermione felt a pang in her chest when she assessed the handsome boy with chiselled features and deep, brown eyes. The hufflepuff reminded her of the boy who had lost his life during the Tri-wizard tournament and began to wonder if he was an ancestor or somehow related to the Diggory Family.

Hermione doubted she'd find out on her first day, and if the manner in which he focussed solely on the book propped up on a goblet of pumpkin juice was anything to go by, he wished to be undisturbed.

Withholding a sigh, the curly haired witch seated herself in the centre of the derelict Slytherin table and began taking little bits of literally everything that was offered. Despite her second-year-self berating her for her lack of respect towards the elves that had worked hard to cook as much as she was consuming, Hermione couldn't bring herself to care any longer given that no matter how hard she could try to campaign for their rights, her voice wouldn't be heard simply because she was a woman in this era. A closeted mudblood to boot.

Tom had taken a seat opposite her and took a much larger serving than she had. Both orphans ate as quickly as was polite before the rest of their house began to trickle in, forcing them to eat at a much slower pace with significantly less food on their plates. They shared a small, secretive grin when the male Malfoy, Nott and Black surrounded them tiredly. Cygnus and Thoros occupied the seats beside Hermione and Malfoy sat beside Tom. Minutes later, the young witch's roommates sat around them; Druella took a seat on the vacant side of Tom whereas Dorea and Irma sat opposite each other.

"Morning, girls," Hermione greeted pleasantly as she slowly sipped on a cup of hot tea that she had instinctively checked for poisons earlier.

"Morning, Hermione!" Dorea grinned as she elbowed Cygnus harshly to serve her food. The boy grumbled incomprehensibly as he set down some of the luxurious croissants and a buttered toast onto her plate harshly. "Tea, dear Cyg?" she taunted, eliciting another whine from the boy as he stirred in milk and sugar.

Hermione and Tom exchanged amused glances as they witnessed the others performing similarly. The curly haired witch raised an eyebrow at him, "Maybe I should get you to do that next time,"

Tom smirked and tilted his head, "Don't expect prissy perfectness."

Hermione stifled a snort as she finished the remainder of her tea. Reminding her housemates of their first lesson, the young witch exited the Great Hall with a sigh of relief. Though its vast size didn't encourage claustrophobia, Hermione had truly forgotten how it felt to eat surrounded by people after not having done so for so long. Meal times had either been in the company of Harry (after Ron left) or spent alone. After the Boy-Who-Lived's death and those whom she was acquainted with seeking shelter elsewhere than the targeted Grimmauld Place, eating had become something more for sustenance than socialisation. Even at the orphanage, she had been ostracised from the unofficial social groups after _the tragedy_ for the blame had been pinned onto her leaving her to eat in solitude. Thus, the sudden shift from eating in near silence to the boisterous obnoxiousness of the Great Hall lead the witch into feeling bouts of nausea as her mind couldn't process the noise as well as it once could. All of her senses, especially her hearing, had sharpened due to war and Hermione doubted that she would be able to readjust to normality with World War Two and Grindelwald looming over the era.

"It's loud, isn't it?"

"What?" Hermione questioned, shaking her head as she registered that somebody was talking to her.

"The Great Hall. It's louder than what we're used to." Tom repeated slowly.

"Definitely," she replied curtly as she slowly trudged her way to Transfiguration. "Do you know who is teaching us for Transfiguration?"

Hermione knew. Of course she knew. It was the man she had idolised until the Battle of Hogwarts itself and it was the man who now appeared to be forming into her nemesis.

"Professor Dumbledore," Tom stated factually as he readjusted the strap of his school bag on his shoulder. "He doesn't seem to like you."

"Something I'm sure you have informed me of before."

"You're not concerned?" he paused in front of her, forcing her to stop her movement sharply in order to avoid colliding into him. "You were the one who said he was powerful... isn't that dangerous for you?"

"Worried about me, Riddle?" she smirked at his sneered response of a flustered " _No_ ". A light chuckle escaped her as she shook her head solemnly, "I have no intention in making him my opponent, though it seems since that day in Diagon Alley he has claimed me as one."

"That did intrigue me though. How did you know where to get all of this and how the hell did you pay for it?"

"I already told you this yesterday, Riddle," she sighed before placing a hand on his skeletal shoulder, expertly ignoring his confused expression, "Listen; I have more knowledge than you do of this world at this moment in time and in order for us to even survive I need you to listen to me at least until we graduate from here."

Hermione struggled to keep her countenance blank when Tom flinched at the gentle contact, seemingly unsure of what to do. It pulled on her loosened heart strings that Lord Voldemort, the boy who she was holding at an arm's length in the moment, was merely a boy supressing the desire to be loved. Maybe eventually, as they would inevitably grow closer together, she could love and cherish him the way he always wanted to be before he morphed his rejected desires into megalomania.

"And how do you know so much?"

"I wasn't the one born and raised at the rotten excuse for an orphanage, was I?" she snapped, her patience lost as her magic flared around her defensively. Inhaling deeply, Hermione quickly reeled it in, instead allowing it to simmer under her veins rather surrounding her like an aura causing sparks to flare around her hair. "Sorry, I lost my temper."

Tom's expression had hardened into one she had observed on him when he was approached by the boys who wished to make it their career to taunt him. With his silence, Hermione unconsciously felt the need to explain herself despite her best efforts in stopping her motor mouth. "There's a war going on here and there's talks of war going on there. It doesn't matter how I gained the knowledge, all you need to do is exploit it and save yourself, Riddle."

The boy nodded stoically before offering her his arm. Sighing in contempt, Hermione ruefully accepted and subtly guided him towards what would be McGonagall's future classroom with gentle nudges and faked estimates.

Hermione Granger had always favoured punctuality in her true past and despite the change in timeline, Hermione Granger would still refuse to be late if she could help it.

**ooOoo**

** 2nd September 1938 - First Year – Transfiguration **

"Now, we can move on to the practical part of transfiguring our matchsticks into needles." Dumbledore announced with a delighted, grandfatherly clap. With a flick of his wand, two matchsticks dropped in front of each student with a quiet clatter onto their wooden desks. "Follow your notes precisely and make sure your wand never moves away from your target, otherwise who knows what could happen," he instructed with the usual, irritating twinkle shining brightly in his devious blue eyes.

Withholding her urge to satisfy the insatiable beast within her instructing her to out-perform her peers, Hermione settled to observe the magical capabilities of those in her house. A few tries and Tom had managed to change the matchstick's properties from that of wood to metal and had allowed himself the briefest of grins as he took note of the others' struggling. Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed to be having the greatest difficulty out of the three Ancient Houses she had made acquaintances with. A sharp flick of his wand and the end of the matchstick had flattened instead of sharpened. Another loose twist of his wrist prompted the wood to snap in half.

At least Draco had been competent, Hermione thought snidely as she watched Cygnus sneakily perfect his half-wooden needle with a Black Family spell.

"Miss Granger, are you struggling with your task?" the cold blue eyes of Dumbledore shook the time traveller from her observations.

"No sir," she replied.

"Then why do you still have matchsticks on your desk?"

By now the class had stopped to watch the small scene and something within Hermione compelled her to put the powerful, wrinkly raisin in his place with the best of her abilities; however, due to her appearance as a muggle-raised eleven-year-old, she couldn't unleash the myriad of spells she harboured into a surprise attack and pass it off as extra reading. It was only her first full day at Hogwarts!

Growling internally in aggravation, the witch grasped her cherrywood wand and flicked and twisted her wrist with precision. Forgetting to move one of the matchstick to the side of the desk, Hermione inadvertently transfigured both into needles made of pure metal with the correct incantation. She silently revelled in the shocked expressions of her peers and the suspicious glean in Dumbledore's glances.

"What are you talking about, sir?" she couldn't help but taunt, "There isn't a matchstick in sight!"

Tilting his nose up, Dumbledore sniffed as he gazed at her from his moon shaped spectacles. With his class' acknowledgment of her extraordinary achievement, he had little choice but to give the girl her reward. "One point to Slytherin," was all he said before he dismissed the class.

"He really doesn't like her," Abraxas whispered to Thoros as they exited after Hermione.

"No kidding," the boy agreed.


End file.
